Number Five
by Fin de la Folle
Summary: Sherlock receives contact from his oldest friend.
1. Chapter 1

'Thud, SMACK. Thud, SMACK. Thud, SMACK.'

The incessant bounce of a rubber ball, from wall to hand and back again.

'Thud, SMACK.'

This was only interrupted when John came running up the stairs for the umpteenth time in his life in this flat, stumbling on the loose carpet at the top of the stairs, once again cursing to himself and making a mental note to get it fixed. He stared at Sherlock incredulously, and when he couldn't hold it back any more, declared

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

'Thinking'

Normally John would have been happy for any sort of response on these occasions, for talking was a relief from the pounding, repetitive sound that Sherlock seemed to be able to make with anything he could get his hands on. Normally John would have sighed, wandered into the kitchen, complained about the lack of milk, and then settled down to his blog. Normally...

But this wasn't normal. Sherlock's voice never normally sounded so strained, so... sad. There was something about Sherlock's eyes that John hadn't seen in a long time. This definitely wasn't normal. John realized this, and rushed to Sherlock's feet.

'Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you ill? Sherlock tell me what the matter is, I'm a doctor, I can help. Is it your brother?'

Sherlock sat there in silence for a moment, a moment that felt like, well, a long time. He looked deep into John's eyes, feeling the soft ache that pulled at the edge of his heart, knowing he must not show it on his face. He dropped the ball and John watched it bounce twice and then proceed to roll under the sofa. At least that was the end of that. Sherlock sat up from his lazy, slouched position, put his head on one hand and motioned in the direction of the desk where books and documents were balanced precariously into small mountains. Upon the small peak nearest to the wall lay an unusual royal blue envelope, crisp and dark like a new leaf, but hardly as welcoming.

'What... that's not from the surgery is it? Sherlock, I...'

'John, for god's sake, I'm not ill!'

Sherlock bursts out from his shell, verbally lashing out at John in a way that John had almost become accustomed to when said something that Sherlock considered 'idiotic'. Sherlock stood up, and with the most grace and dignity he could in his clearly beaten shape, he walked over the the imposing piece of stationary and stared down at it until he picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The face of it is littered with a thousand stamps from obscure places, most of which he was pretty sure weren't from Earth. Though, Sherlock thought, that made sense...

He walked over to where John was sitting, carefully slit the envelope and showed John the contents. John recited the date and grid reference, and looked up at Sherlock. The man stared back, his eyes hollow and black.

'Who is this from?'

'A friend'

'I thought you didn't have friends' John retorted jokily, trying to lighten up the mood.

'A friend' Sherlock repeated, without breaking composure.


	2. Chapter 2

Just then, the door slammed, breaking the silence, the silence that was making the room stifling hot despite the arctic winds blowing the drifts of snow across the road outside. Mrs Hudson's voice was heard echoing itself up the stairs,

'Hello boys! Just nipped out for a bit of early Christmas shopping! Sherlock, I've told you not to leave your boots here, they've made the hallway all muddy!'

Sherlock smirked slightly despite himself, allowing himself to be distracted momentarily by Mrs Hudson's trivial complaints. His eyes glanced down to the envelope with the number five printed on it in bright white ink, like the first brush stroke of a painting, irreversible, dominating. His eyes glazed over for a moment, before he stood up and went to the window, a position John often found hims in when he got home, as if Sherlock was trapped in a cage.

'I met him when I was a child' Began Sherlock.

John started, he didn't realize he was going to get a story out of his companion. He longed to go to Sherlock, to wrap his arms around his waist and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But Sherlock looked so frail, he didn't dare. He looked as if he could shatter at any minute.

'I was seven, and my mother took me to a fair ground.'

John's face was a mixture of surprise, confusion and amusement. Sherlock didn't seem to be the fair ground type. Sherlock ignored this, and carried on.

'This was one of the rare moments me and my mother bonded. She was always too busy worrying what Mycroft was doing. But the fair ground was all mine. I think I was fascinated as a child, of the colour and sounds and the people. So many people John, for a mind like mine. So many people with so many stories. I used to sit at the top of the Ferris wheel and count the people, trying to work out who they were, what their jobs were.'

John chuckled affectionately. He could imagine a young Sherlock, eager and inquisitive.

'We went about once every couple of months. It was March, just beginning to get warm, and I ran to the Ferris wheel. I turned and my mother was gone. I remember looking for hours.' His voice broke. 'I couldn't find her. I sat on a bench and waited. I had always been a strong willed child, but I remembered the tears that day. Then I noticed a man, with a pretty ginger girl. He pointed at me, and then remarked to the girl. I tried to work out their story, but it was impossible. The man was so old, yet so young at the same time. He came up to me and inquired about what was wrong. I told him the story, and he left. Within minutes my mother was running towards me. The man smiled in the distance and walked away. I don't know how he did it, but he managed to find her among the crowds of thousands.' He shook his head slowly.

'I didn't know it yet, but that was the first time I had ever met the Doctor.'


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock went and sat in a more comfortable position on the coach, barely glancing at John who was sitting worriedly on his chair. Sensing that John had questions, and guessing most of them, Sherlock continued.

'The second time was in high school. I was never very popular, preferred studying on my own, and the other children sensed that. I was often teased, bullied. I knew why...' His voice trailed off, lost in thought.

A small tear traced the line around his nose and dropped onto his satin dressing gown. He never felt much love towards his teenager years.

'They had a game they would play. Find out when my exams were, take my books the night before and hide them in the most inventive places possible. The girls toilets. On top of the filling cabinets in the teachers staffroom. In the cage with the mice kept for Biology.'

'It was the night before my final Chemistry exam. They had done it again, and.. I didn't know what to do. Then he walked into the classroom. He was wearing the same thing, jacket, bow tie, braces. Scuffed army boots. He strode over to my desk and placed all of my books onto it. Every single book I had ever lost and never found since juniors. Then he smiled and turned to leave, again. It was all I could do to whisper 'Who ARE you', but when he spun back again and replied 'I'm the Doctor. Here to help', I felt more confused than ever. And you know me John. I'm not easily confused.'

'There were several other times too. At my high school prom, my graduation. I never spoke to him, but he was always there, in the distance, never changing. The ginger girl was there sometimes too, but after about the third time, she no longer accompanied him. From then on, he grew darker. His eyes, tired. Even though he was the most confusing man I had ever met, I knew that something was going to happen.'

'I finally spoke to him while walking home from the Yard about two years ago. He was standing by the street corner, darker and more hallowed than ever. I.. all I could say to him was 'Why are you here', which seems, now, a stupid question.'

John got the sense that Sherlock would have wanted to say more, and he was right.

'If only I had spoken to him more.'

The tears were coming think and fast now, and Sherlock had given up trying to hide them. He manage to keep his voice steady though. As John sat down beside him on the sofa, he continued.

'He replied, 'You fascinate me Sherlock. You are brilliant, like, seriously brilliant. I'd call you a genius, but I'm here so...' and I remember his sly smile like I saw it yesterday. He told me about how he had been following me through my entire life, making sure I was always where I needed to be, I never got hurt. When I inquired why, he simply said that it was because he was the Doctor, and he was here to help.'

The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Sherlock, I'm proud of you. Amy thought I was crazy, following you through your life. But I said 'Amy, I know a bright star when I see one'. I've gone through my life for too long Sherlock, seeing people who could have been so much waste away to nothing. I'm going to die. Soon. I want you there with me'. And I never heard from him again. Until today.'

Sherlock grew silent.

The evening was a quiet one. Sherlock became more resigned than ever, John had difficulty getting him to eat anything. John knew that he wouldn't be able to get anything more out of Sherlock, so he decided it would be best to settle in early for the night, leaving Sherlock on the coach downstairs. He would come to bed when he was ready.


	4. Chapter 4

As the watery morning sunshine leaked through the curtains, John groaned and rolled over to find the other half of the bed still neatly made. John was sure he heard Sherlock shuffling around in the room late last night, and assumed that he would pull back the covers and lie next to John. But when John blinked and sat up, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He pulled back the covers, slipped his feet into his slippers and trudged over to the bathroom to freshen up. Sherlock would be on the sofa again.

Mid way through brushing his teeth, John heard the doorbell ring.

'Sherlock, can you get that!' John yelled through his toothbrush.

He didn't expect Sherlock to answer, or get up and go get the door, but it was worth a shot. John rinsed his face, walked downstairs to open front door. He thought it was odd that Mrs Hudson hadn't thought to get it, but she was normally out by this time in the morning.

'10 o'clock' John muttered to himself. He really shouldn't let himself sleep in this late.

He got to the living room and gave Sherlock a disapproving glare for his laziness. Or, he would have, if Sherlock had been in his normal position on the tiny sofa. But the sofa looked large and bare and empty without Sherlock's presence filling it, and as John hurled round to find him not in the kitchen either, so did the entire flat.

The doorbell rang again, and despite his sudden anxiety, he wrenched open the door to Mycroft standing in the doorway, thoroughly snow covered and looking as anxious as John felt.

'May I come in , John?'

'Ugh, well, yes, of course, come in Mycroft, in.'

John stumbled out of the way as Mycroft strode into the small corridor, placed his umbrella against the wall and turned to John.

'Shall we go up? I have matters of great importance to discuss with you.'

Sensing John's confusion, and worry, he added

'I too am concerned about the whereabouts of my brother.'

The silence, once again, entered the flat like an unwanted draft.

'You better follow me' John replied quietly as he ascended the stairs to his room.


	5. Chapter 5

As he bounded up the dust track under the pale blue, never ending sky, Sherlock watched the old bus bounce along the road, out of sight. He was not a fan of running, athletic and nimble though he may be, so he made no further attempts to pursue the vehicle. He slowed his walk to a standstill and gazed around at the emptiness that surrounded him. The sand swirled his coat around his calves and stung his eyes. He squinted into the distance and frowned, for he knew that another bus would not travel the empty path through Utah for many a day.

He had been following the coordinates on the letter for half a week now, only to find how middle-of-no-where they really were. He had found the bus, that runs once a week, but was just too late. Though he swore that as he approached, and the engines roared into life, he saw a swish of red hair and heard a laugh that sounded as familiar as John's voice. It couldn't be... How can she be here, the same, after these decades? It was this pause, this moment of confusion, that led to Sherlock missing the bus.

John stared through the long bay window that stood tall along with wall of the empty flat, and tried to fathom a way of reaching Sherlock in time for... For what? John didn't know. His companion had left at first light, leaving nothing. He paced around the room as Mycroft sat still and calm in the arm chair, though John knew how tense he was.

As he walked up the long, barren road which led to the cliff top, he stumbled over rock and weed. Although the bag he had brought with him held things for at least one, maybe two weeks of travel, Sherlock was beginning to feel the strain. He had shed his long, dark coat a while back, but with great regret, as he feared that someone might find it, and that someone may be John.

Also, he had developed a great fondness for that coat, and hated to part with it. He was now left in his slim black trousers and fitted purple shirt, which he was now starting to regret wearing as he gazed into the clear sky, and the sun beat down on him. He tripped over yet another obtrusive root, and cursed aloud.

As he emerged at the top of the hill, he found himself gazing down on a vast lake, with water crystal blue. A car was parked up along side a picnic blanket. Sherlock squinted into the sun and caught sight of a ripple of red. The laugh once again rang in his ears, followed by a deeper chuckle.

He saw him. He was lounging on his side, a bottle of wine in his hand, although he did not seem to drink from it. It swung from his fingers like a pendulum, seemingly in time with the small waves from the lake lapping the shore. He seemed to be waiting for something, expectant. Was he waiting for Sherlock?

Sherlock could make it down the cliff; he was only a short distance from a track that led down to the waters edge. But there was something that stopped him. As he gazed down at the party of four, the Doctor, Amy, and two others he didn't recognize, he saw their happiness. He did not know why he had been invited, moreover what they had all been gathered together for. But he knew that this was not his place. Sherlock felt lost without London's familiar streets, and John's calming smile.

A figure rose from the water, perhaps a fifth guest, apart from himself. Sherlock began to turn away, feeling the sand and the heat burning him. The girl looked up at the cliff, right at Sherlock, and made to say something. Suddenly her attention was diverted. The group stood facing the lake as, to Sherlock's great surprise as well as their own; a spaceman stepped onto the sand.


End file.
